There and Back Again
by Momosportif
Summary: This is a series of AUs inspired by my World History class, mostly pairing based, and of varying styles and ilks. The time periods may range from ancient Egypt to WWII and the pairings are just as myriad. Characters are Hoshino's. Please enjoy!
1. Model

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Please DO NOT review and tell me this is grammatically incorrect. I wrote it that way. This takes place during the Renaissance and is a TiedollKanda fic with Tiedoll as an artist and Kanda as his model. The fic is from Kanda's POV and is written as though he, a native of Japan found and cared for by Tiedoll, is attempting to speak in English, his second and self-thought language. For those brave enough to continue, please enjoy! :D

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Model

I wait.

Alone waiting so scary because alone I am not safe, I am "foreign" but with waiting I am safe, I am his. But now alone waiting and I see without looking the eyes that call me bad and want me gone away. So I sit still and straight and try not to be.

I hate wait alone.

He come through gate over sad crushed leaves so dry in spring sun and wait is no more. But still so scary for his face is face that make pain in my heart, beat heavy and hard, his hands want my hands but too scary with hiding eyes.

"No good?" So soft eyes hold my eyes because so soft hands can't hold my hands.

"No good…" He went with men who buy his time and smile their teeth at me with smile eyes that want me gone.

My badness, I make no good, I know. I hold his sleeve because no hands and tug my sorry, my no good, sorry. If hands could touch it would be okay, he could say okay or no okay, but he always say okay on my cheek so lips touch. Not with hiding eyes, too scary. So hand under chin say okay, tired hand hold up my face and say okay. Old hand and that what make hiding eyes so angry because hiding minds say we hide bad things.

But we don't hide, everything is for seeing because no bad is in love.

We are in love.

And everyday he show it because old hands are busy with a brush, always show it because I am sitting or laying in the light through the window and on the paper that is rough like old skin I love. With colors I love. And so soft brushes I love. And picture he love and all the world love, all the ladies in the skirts so big with the tight folded hair, all the men in the stupid flop hats with the stuffy lace collar.

I speak bad English but I see their talking from behind my danna painting.

My hair too long.

My eyes too small at corner and too big for his eyes.

My skin not pink-pale, too saffron-pale.

My face too thin.

My years too small.

My too bad, bad, bad.

I trick my danna at night they speak. At night they don't see, I only rest my head on his shoulder for because he love me and there he can hold me so happy. He love me, he tell me always when old skin brush saffron-pale or so soft brush pale on rough paper.

So happy can no have so bad. I love him for loving to me.

"Come with me, Kanda," so soft words he tells me.

"To room?"

"Yes, I'd like to paint. Good?"

"Yes, good." Now he will take me with the window where the so soft brushes wear the colors I love, where the hiding eyes don't watch me gone and away with their hearts.

It is cold in court in England but it was warm when I was away long time away where "foreign" is. And all the time it is warm with the window where I sit for my danna who I loving to and where he paint away empty white rough paper that hold tight his eyes that make pain in my heart.

He tell me all the men and all the ladies think art is for eye looking.

We know art is for heart looking.

I with wait for hiding eyes to let us be our art.


	2. Moon

It is quiet on the road at night. The moon is big and full, round like my mother's face and just as white and pale. I only knew my mother when her skin was white but my father used to talk about how rosy it had been once, like peach colored silk. I wonder often if my face is rosy or if it is moon white.

My brother always told me it was rosy.

But the moon is very pretty tonight and it is the only face I want to talk to. There are other faces here in the carriage but they have sharp smiles and I cannot trust them.

My brother has a soft smile but my brother is far away on the road at night, far away at our quiet house where we were alone and alone was safe.

My mother has disappeared.

My father has disappeared.

So we were alone and alone was happy. But I am not alone any more.

He is staring at me with no smile (at least he is honest) and his eyes are hard, like little pebbles made smooth by the river, and his hair falls across his face like sunshine through a big window in the spring, and his mouth is thin and small, thinking.

My brother has a thinking mouth too.

I have seen him before at our far away house and he has a name I don't remember. He is taking me away.

"How are you feeling?" The old man tied to him by years of strings asks me again to fill the silence.

"Very good, thank you, sir," I say again to fulfill my duty as a lady.

But I am looking at him looking at me looking at him and his blue-pebble eyes. They drill into me hard, not into my eyes or my face, but below, somewhere I cannot quite pinpoint.

My brother has below eyes too. But they are like lights, little dark suns in eclipse, not stones.

His eyes make me hurt in the stomach. He has marrying eyes and this is why I don't trust him the most. I am a lady and I am for marrying; that is what I see in his thoughts behind his tiny, sharp eyes.

But my brother thinks differently. I have seen many marrying eyes far away at our quiet house, I have seen them come and my brother turn them away. I wonder suddenly if that is why I am not alone anymore.

But the moon's blank face makes me think there is more.

People say all the time that my brother is the smartest man in the Middle Kingdom. People whisper behind their hands that a new man is in the pretty jewel palace with perfect doll people that my brother used to go to. But people say now that the new man does not like smart men. People say now that smart men think too much, that smart men write bad books and speak bad thoughts that the pretty doll man does not like.

Men. It is always men.

People said all today that far away at our quiet house where we were alone was not safe. I watched my brother watching me watching my brother and my brother's setting sun eyes. My brother gave me a soft smile but my brother did not say no. My brother did not say things would be okay. My brother did not say anything because my brother is the smartest man in the Middle Kingdom and my brother knows my brother cannot lie to me. My face is not rosy, has never been rosy. It is moon white and I can speak only to the moon because she is me and I am her; there is no moon tonight.

He puts a thinking hand down from his thinking mouth and says,

"I wouldn't worry about him. He can take care of himself." I bite my tongue and many words that don't belong in a lady's mouth, a marrying lady's mouth, and look down from the eyes that want to tie me to him too and I say to my hands,

"I hope so, sir, I hope my brother does not burn."

They are quiet, he is quiet, it is quiet. The moon is big and full and she is me and I am her; there is no Lenalee tonight.

She has disappeared.

* * *

Setting: The beginning of the Qin Dynasty in China in which the new emperor, Cheng, imposed legalist beliefs, began the construction of the Great Wall, and executed many scholars for speaking against his government or himself. This time was also notorious for book-burnings.

Here, Komui is a scholar and Lenalee has been sent away to a safer house due to the dangers associated with Komui's work. I'd like to see if anyone recognizes the old man and "him"/"he" who are taking her to safety. :3 I hope you enjoyed installment two! If you have any suggestions for more stories or any comments on this I'd love to hear them!!

A thousand thank yous,

S


	3. Mar

Mar here means "sea" not "to damage". :3

* * *

He's here again.

I can't help but sigh and smile.

He's here again.

There have been so many last days in my heart but he keeps coming back and I have never been so happy to be wrong. I watch from behind the counter and wonder if he'll ask- he has always, _always_ asked- for me. I see the tired eyes look up when Cruz comes to his corner table- he has always, _always_ sat there- and I see his tiny hands clench as his tiny jaw drops, then pulls- he said my name.

I hide behind the counter so I can act busy and surprised when Cruz comes around the corner and tells me,

"Britânico wants you."

Britânico. We call him for his country, his "Great Britain"- I have been practicing "Great Britain". I say it very well now.

"Okay," I say and slip around the corner, glide across the floor, dodge the chairs and people and tables and waiters- he's here.

He's really here.

The hands unclench but stay on the table. The tiny face looks up, silver hair falls back, and tiny lips make a tiny smile. A perfect smile.

"Hello," I smile back. "Drink?" I prepare to write.

Tiny frown. He's playing with me.

"No português today? All I get is a drink?"

"Drink." I play back, tap my pencil. "Drink."

Tiny sigh. Big eyes look out the window, big eyes that look out and see the blood far away on his friends' green coats and not my pretty, white town where the flores are blooming and the fado is drifting from crying guitars, where there is peace.

"Drink?" I say sadly- sadly because he is too tiny to know hurt, his heart is too tiny to bleed. His big eyes look at me and he asks,

"Company?"

I explode inside- I know "company", "company" means "sit", "company" means "stay", "company" means "I like you", means "friend". I slide down across from him. "Can you speak to me?"

"Yes."

"No, in your language… can you speak that?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

I pause.

It is this- my words- that he always, _always_ asks for. We cannot figure it out.

We know some britânico, some "Great Britain", and we can speak it- we want to speak it. I want to speak it, I want to practice. But he always, _always_ asks for me to talk to him in my own language, my pretty, white town with the flores he calls "flowers" and the fado he calls "street music", but he does not understand.

Britânico. He is here for me though and it is my duty to serve- the customer is always right.

I begin.

He looks at me with his big eyes and the words begin to pour out onto the table in a mess I don't know how to clean up while I stare at his pretty, white gloves hiding his tiny hands. I speak of the city and the people and the boys in the back. I speak of the little room I have down the street and what a mess it is and I ask him if his room is messy too but that I suspect it's clean. I speak about the sky and the sun and the sea- I love the sea and I want to sail one day, I tell him. But the sea's so scary now I've heard.

I speak and the words flow like water and I don't know what I'm saying sometimes but I make sure I never stop, I glance up quickly to see his big eyes but they are closed and his lips are curved up in a tiny smile.

A perfect smile.

I speak fast and I speak passion- my words are passion, my language is passion, my town- passion.

I speak of love- the lady who brought me flowers until I said no, sorry- of hate- the men he sees when he looks out- of fear- the other britânico who talk to us about red and green- as if we don't know. Look at our flag, you think we don't know war? Guerra. Think again.

I speak of how I think of the big britânico talking to our ministro when I speak to him and I feel he and I are important.

I tell him to tell me when he'll leave. But he does not know, does not understand, never has. I always, _always_ ask.

"Mm. I guess I should be going," tiny fingers rub tiny temples.

"Sorry to see," I say.

I stand. He puts money on the table.

"No! No-" I start but he stops me.

"Let me pay for company, Mister Tyki." I explode inside again.

He knows my name.

I watch the tiny body disappear into the big world and look at his money.

I hope I still have time, I hope my heart is wrong.

I hope he will be here again.

I have to practice. I have to learn.

I have to get it perfect.

I take my dollar and try the words,

"Take me to…"

* * *

This is set during WWI in Portugal (thus the abundance of Portuguese words...If you know Portuguese, 1.) I love you, 2.) Please correct me. I have some accent marks in there but I'm not sure if they'll turn up when I post it...). Portugal was actually neutral for the majority of the war but because Britain was their main source of importing and exporting, the Portuguese economy felt the strain Britain's economy was going through and their boats were increasingly in danger of being sunk by U-boats. Britain invited Portugal to join the war on the Allies side but Portugal wished to say neutral. Eventually, however, they captured German boats in their ports upon Britain's orders and Germany responded by declaring war on Portugal.

Whew! Now that the history portion is over, the characters in this one (as I'm sure you know) are Tyki and Allen. This can be read a as a couple or as love between friends. I took some historical liberties and decided Britain must have sent a group over to invite the Portuguese to join the war, so Allen is part of the squad staying there while their leaders talk to the Portuguese authorities. Tyki is a native who works in a restaurant where Allen comes in the evenings and they've, despite the barrier of language, forged a relationship of sorts. A thousand thank yous for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

-S


	4. Medo

Dedicated to the wonderful Sarahfreak. :3 Your support is priceless, your reviews inspiring, and your mission unique and essential. :3 Keep doing what you're doing; the world needs more people like you. :3

-S

p.s. Medo means "goal"...as far as I know...

* * *

"Oh… no good…"

I squint out at the field so that the little blue and white lines become little blue and white blurs. The man beside me was smart enough to bring binoculars but I didn't think ahead.

I've never been to a game before.

My eyes get tired from squinting so I look up at the screen where I can see the big faces that belong to the little lines.

"No chance,"

"For sure!"

"No chance!"

The couple in front of me argues. I know by their voices that they are from Saga.

They came a long way.

The big faces are sweaty and red like Turkey's socks. The sky is blue like Japan's.

Dark.

I hold my breath and watch the blurs running all over Miyagi's green filed and the sky in the stands holds its breath with me and hopes against hope that this is our year. And then the sky explodes as the tiny white and black speck rebounds once (on the grass), twice (on the screen), again (on the screen), and again (under groans) on the wrong side of the field.

Now it's only me holding my breath- a cloud in the crying sky- staring up at the screen, holding my sopping sweatshirt against my elbows, swallowing our acid tears because my breaths are coming too heavily for me to keep my mouth closed, because I might see him. They might show him. It was his goal; they should show him; that's what they do on T.V. when I watch games I've taped late at night from my bedroom floor after I get home from work.

"I told you!"

"It's not over."

"I told you."

They shake their heads.

Maybe during half time. Maybe.

"Excuse me," binocular man shuffles past in a plastic poncho to catch the food tray woman moving with inherited poise through the crowds leaking out onto the stairs.

I guess the goal replay is the most I'll see- It's okay though, it's not like I can't look at him at home- I saved up to buy a poster, a big one, and it's hanging up by my bed with the carefully clipped newspaper articles that have his name in my letters, the only way we can be close: "ba ri"- but still.

I came a long way.

"Nakata could bring it back I think,"

"Perhaps…"

"Reçber doesn't even guard the goal properly, it should be an easy turn around."

"But Barry-"

I start and look up because there is thunder in the stands and the men behind me said his name and stopped and it might be there, he might be- the big face is a face I know from a thousand printed photographs that have been wrapped between tissue paper all three times I've moved and my temperamental T.V.'s screen at twelve o'clock while I eat cheap soba in the bowl I painted red and the poster I spent an extra weeks savings on so I could buy it online and not use my real name.

I mouth his words in my letters and listen to crackling foreign sounds that mean my whispers and while it pours in Miyagi and musings, bets, wishes, hopes, and fears rain from the sky in the stands, I break and rain too. We are the closest we have ever been.

And later, as I am tripping down the steps in the nearly empty stadium, I decide it's okay to take off my sweatshirt and if it's not okay, I can't say that I care.

I've never worn it out before.

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Yea! This is probably the most recent time setting we'll see in these chapters...I set out quite perplexed as to how to write Kanda and Daisya for this series. I thought it was impossible for Turkey and Japan to have any type of relationship whatsoever and so went to my infallible (cough cough) source, Wiki. I was totally shocked to find that the countries did have a relationship but realize now how natural it is that they would have met as opponents in the wonderful World Cup. In 2002 Japan and Turkey played in Miyagi stadium in the World Cup play offs for placings. Turkey won 1-0 and went on to win third place (go Turkey!) but the game in Miyagi was quite an upsetting game for hosts Japan. Of all these play off games, this one had the greatest turn out (the majority being Japan supporters). You can watch a little summary of the game on youtube if you type "Turkey Japan WC" into the search bar. It's pretty cool. My mum (a football player in her youth) said Davala's (he was the one who actually scored...obviously I took liberties in the story; Daisya did NOT play for Turkey in the 2002 WC) goal was textbook stuff so I'm sure that made it even more infuriating for Japan. :(

As for the characters in this, I feel Kanda may be a little OOC but I think that if he ever obsessed over anyone (and doesn't everyone have a football idol?) he would do it quietly like this so I'm going ahead and posting it. Just to clear up any confusion, at the end he takes off his blue sweatshirt to be in his Turkey jersey. ;3 Thanks, SarahFreak, for introducing me to the Kanda/Daisya love! Thank you everyone else for reading and I hope you enjoyed.

-S


	5. Manuscript

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Dedicated to the lovely DAzebras who not only gave me this idea but is also threatening me severely if I do not post fics... I'm working, lovely, see!!

This is LaviTyki set in ancient Egypt with Tyki as the pharaoh (it's a stretch but pharaoh he is) and Lavi as an amorous scribe (the WHOLE Egypt things a stretch but scribe Lavi is!). Hope it's not too out there... It's not based on any particular time period (I guess the Middle Era... I forgot what the three divisions of Egyptian history were, but the Middle one was the one of prosperity with the pyramids and such) nor is Tyki supposed to be any particular pharaoh. Enjoy!

* * *

Manuscript

_Are you too hot, my lord?_ The question burns in my mouth like the light that brings the fine rills of perspiration to the oiled skin it tans. I would be beaten if I asked, killed perhaps.

Such insolence.

My hands ache, not from writing, but from the urge to seize the palm frond from that slave and seize the honor of cooling your smooth, dark skin.

I am to answer, with one word if possible. I am to stay on my knees with my head bowed low. I remember the lessons, I remember so well, exactly, precisely, and that's why I have the honor of clothing the papyrus with whatever you command, why I am a royal scribe.

"Let us move to the shade." You speak, soft, strong like the crocodiles that drift beside your boat when you sail, and everyone listens, everyone moves all at once. I follow your slaves as they heft their poles in unison and move with measured steps to keep you still and floating in the sky.

You are the sun.

My shoulders ache, not from stripping leaves or mashing ink, but from the need to bear your weight, to bear the honor of suffering the heat, to bear the sun.

But I remember and so I write.

I write with fingers that yearn to wipe the cool sweat from your blistering body or to smooth your diadems to lay flat and regally across your proud chest. I wear robes. Waiting is not my honor yet all I can do is wait.

Wait for that crocodile voice to spill your words, any words, so I can write my soul into the pages, so I can prove I am worthy of the honor to glance at the sun. Wait to remember. You said once, "He writes so well, like art, and still so quickly." The head scribe bowed,

"It is his honor."

So I write better each time, faster, stronger, with unsurpassable grace. During the nights, I stagger to the riverbanks and cry my tears into our mother, the Nile, such happy tears because you called on _me_ again today.

"Isis," I say, "Osiris," I plead, "I'm burning, I'm burning!" And I've never even touched you.

"A record of today, Lavi," you command. I choke as the flames that crawl across my oiled skin and boil my insides intensify so that they turn to cold, ice that spears my heart.

I will write as never before.

You said my name.

You.

Our sun.

Our Nile.

Our entire Desert.

Our God.

My Soul.

Pharaoh.


	6. Măsurat

This one is WWI (you knew that was coming) with Krory (Romania sided against the Triple Entente) and Eliade that shifts into Krory and Miranda (a nurse who fled Germany after the Treaty of Versailles). I didn't research dates very closely so some things might be unseasonal or strange considering the parameters of the war so please excuse my laziness! It's really schlocky so be warned ;D. I tried to work some elements of Krory's story into this one in a period way but as to the success of that... I'll let you decide!

Btb, măsurat means shy in Romanian!

* * *

He watched her fingers as they finished buttoning up his gray coat front.

"There you are! Now don't worry so much, Darling," she laid her hands flat on his shoulders, smoothing the uniform. He offered a weak smile in face of her brilliant and reassuring one, trying to control his quivering muscles and ignore the fact that the smile was a little too bright.

"Y-y-y-yes, dear."

"Oh, Arystar…" she touched his face before sliding her arms around his neck and pushing up on her toes, just barely reaching still, even as he leaned forward to meet her hug.

"E-E-E-Ellie…" he hesitantly returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist. She smiled again as they released each other before taking his hand and walking him to the front doorway.

He had a satchel with necessities and a couple of dollars.

And a tiny gold band on his left hand.

She pulled her sweater more completely over her flower printed dress in face of the cold European fall, standing on the plant-laden balcony tier by the steps leading all the long way down to their walkway.

"Well…" she turned to him, away from the stairs, blocking his way, gazing fixedly at her hands clasped at the neck of her cardigan. He looked sadly down at her, shifting his sack so he could hold her once more.

"Brave face now, Ellie," he whispered in the most encouraging tone he could manage, patting her shaking shoulders and leaving a parting kiss on her blonde head. "It will be over soon enough now they say, by Christmas for sure."

"They said by Thanksgiving before, and August before that," she protested tearily, clinging to his shirtfront desperately.

"Courage, love… I can't miss the train now, can I?" She shook her head, face still buried in his jacket, before leaning back and wiping her eyes hastily.

"So sorry, dear, it's just…" she gave him a watery smile, "I'm so proud, Arystar." He smiled back shakily, knowing that if he didn't leave now he'd be hard pressed to soon after.

"Well, bye, love," the wooden stairs creaked under his short light steps as he moved away towards war and from the thing most precious to him but impossible to bring along. She waved, growing smaller and smaller so that by the end of the stairs he could no longer discern her hand over her mouth or that her body was still trembling with grief.

"I love you!" he called as his shoe hit the first concrete stepping stone.

"Come back, Arystar!" He blew her a kiss and walked briskly to the low garden gate. He stopped for a final time outside it and gave a hearty wave. "I'll be waiting!" she shouted, returning the wave. He smiled, the last time for too many months to come, and plodded down the gravel road.

* * *

It was pouring but the rain could not compare to the cascades of tears falling from his eyes. He had no umbrella, a sling, and a broken heart. He also had a soaked satchel, now empty, and a few cents. A little gold band on his left hand shone magnificently against the pallor of his cold, wet clenched hand. He was the only one in the cemetery.

_Eliade Millum 1888-1914._

_ Loving wife of Noah Millum. _

_May they forever rest in peace._

A comrade called from under a streetlamp outside the stone wall; he was supposed to be in the hospital, as were all returning injured soldiers. He stooped by the gravestone, placing the little gold band at the base.

"I'm sorry you could not wait." He sat until his friend called out again, staring blankly at the words that were consuming his already weakened heart. "And you," he looked down at the stone directly next to hers as he stood, "were a very lucky man."

He stooped as he stepped into the tiny local infirmary, gazing over the heads of dozens of shepherding nurses flitting amongst their injured charges. He was intercepted as he sidled towards the waiting area through puddles of water deposited by the rain-soaked men by timid yet forceful hands around his elbow.

"Come vith me, please." He glanced down at the back of a curly brown topped head. Seconds later, she was sitting him down on a hospital bed and shutting the door to a small room as she propped a clipboard up on her hip. He stared bleakly at the white wash ceiling and waited. "Alright," she scribbled a few notes down and peeled the top page off, glancing up at him before poising her pen on the next page. "Bullet vound?"

"Yes…" he noticed something about her speech that he hadn't registered but remembered having heard in her previous dialog.

"Shoulder… how long since you sustained the injury?"

"2 weeks."

"2 veeks… alright, any irregular inflammation or irritation?"

"No." He turned his attention to the nurse now, intrigued by the tone and accent in her words.

She was pretty, young, not too far from his own age he suspected. Her eyes were dark, as were her eyelashes and the surrounding skin. Her face was round but narrow, her cheeks were pinkish, and her hair framed her face in waves. But she looked haunted, the same way he had with telephone poles dashing across his reflection in the train window. Until he remembered-

He blinked down at the sterile tiles, fighting the burning in his throat that was so powerful he answered, "No," when she asked if the gashes of skin around the now empty hole in his muscle and bone was causing any pain.

"Remove your sling, please." She set the clipboard down and exchanged it for some salve and new bandages. The pain was dull and dwarfed by the horrors he'd witnessed receiving the wound and those even shadowed by the emptiness brought on by the vacant ring finger lying on his lap. "Regiment, please." The woman wiped one hand on a paper towel and lifted a pen, prepared to write as she finished his examination. He provided all the requested information dully as she stuck a final piece of tape to secure the wrappings and asked briskly, "Name?"

"Arystar Krory."

He looked up at the clatter of her pen to the gray patterns on the floor. She had both hands clamped tight over her mouth and her eyes were stretched wide beyond belief in a look of terror. "Sorry?" He stared bemusedly as she backed up, tripping against the wall.

"Y-y-y-you're…"

"Krory…" he leaned forward, confused and concerned. She plastered her hands to her sides and bowed deeply and repeatedly chanting,

"Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry!"

"For… wha…" He paused, staring blankly as he realized she was crying.

"So… sorry… so… sorry about Ellie…" The fire erupted in his stomach again and rose through his neck to his eyes lightening fast, fueled by her name. The nurse glanced up at him, hands again attempting to strangle the sobs flocking from her lips, only to see tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and burst into a renewed series of anguished sobs.

"Oh…" Krory slipped off the bed and reached a hand out hesitantly, remaining by the bed a few meters from the medical cabinet where the thoroughly distraught woman was now slumped in a violently shaking heap. He reasoned she must have known his late former bride or must know something about her death and this belief spurred him to find out, consumed all other concerns, like the fact that he himself was crying. "Miss…" his long pale fingers nearly brushed her shoulder, "d-do you know about Eliade?" She continued sobbing, though less consistently, clearly attempting to stifle her cries and after a moment was able to raise herself and wipe her now reddish eyes.

"J-ja… yes… I-I…" she paused a moment to grasp for composure and gasp for breath, "I vas her nurse, but… I didn't k-know about…" Krory waited earnestly focusing so intently on her words he was almost not hearing them. She took a shaky breath and released it before continuing, "She died in a car vreck vith her" she stared wretchedly at a corner of the room, "her husband," she finished quietly. "All I knew at the time vas that she vas recently married and had been on the vay to Japan vith… the man… it vas a fatal accident… nothing ve could do but let them die peacefully…"

Krory too looked towards the corner now, feeling void of everything and dizzy with comprehension.

"I… I heard… talk later about the couple and… about the voman, Ellie, about their house in the country and…" she numbly studied her patient as he gazed shakily into things she couldn't see.

He looked cold, his clothes were still a little damp from the rain, and his fine boned features looked slightly spectral though she didn't doubt he had had much too much experience with ghosts or would for years to come. She noticed in slight alarm that he didn't have his ring anymore.

"I'm really very sorry… they said she vaited for a long time… they said he vas just… too much of a temptation and she vas miserable vithout you so… a husband seemed nice…" She regarded him carefully, wondering if she'd said more than he wanted to hear. He remained in a deeply melancholic contemplation for several moments and she murmured again, "I'm sorry…"

He looked up abruptly, startling her.

"Is my check up complete?"

"Y-y-yes, are-"

"Thank you, Miss…" the nurse stared blankly with a tinge of worry in her dark eyes, completely confounded by Krory's sudden change from depressed to businesslike, realizing after an embarrassingly long time that the last word had been held out, begging for completion.

"Miranda, Miss Miranda!" she finished hurriedly "But are you leav-"

"Thank you, Miss Miranda, I won't detain you from your other patients any longer," the tall, langly man briskly removed his uniform coat from the hospital bed and swung it around his shoulders, placing a resolved hand on the doorknob and making to leave with a harried air.

"Vait! Arystar, vait," he turned around, Miranda, having pursued him thinking he'd continue to exit, crashing into his chest awkwardly. She rebounded a step backwards and then looked up at his slightly surprised face. She swiftly grabbed her clipboard and scribbled a note, pausing to shake the depleted ink in her pen, holding it out to the man in a nearly desperate manner. "Your next appointment, Master Krory…" she explained as his eyes scanned the square of paper. To her relief and shock, the corners of his mouth curved upward in a tired smile.

"Danke schön, frauline."

* * *

"Thank _you_, most certainly."

The happy husband returned Krory's bright smile, collecting the lease papers before returning to his wife and exiting to the bells of the shop door. Krory watched the exuberant couple hurrying down the cobbled town streets as a liberating feeling floated from his stomach upward. He broke from watching the enchanting duo as they entered their vehicle, briskly shook hands with the realtor, and, smoothing his vest first, donned his jacket and winter coat before exiting to copper tinklings into the trails of boot indentions in the presently tumbling snow. "At last…" the words formed miniature clouds of condensated warmth as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and squinted at the blinding shadow of the sun behind heavy gray clouds. Without paying attention to the few streets in the relatively remote village, his feet took their desired path and carried him infallibly to his destination.

"Hello, dear," Krory nodded kindly to the elderly head nurse at the desk as he signed himself in at the register. "Your last appointment, right?" Krory smiled at her broadly,

"Yes, madam." The door to the ward clacked against the wall and he glanced up to a much anticipated sight at the sound of the rubber soles of white slippers pounding the ground. "Miss Miranda," his gesture of ecstasy reached an apex of earnesty as he greated his nurse. She returned the happy grin and, in her habitual mode, pressed her arms to her side and bowed a greeting, excitedly breathing,

"Master Krory! Last appointment!"

The head nurse chuckled at the two young people (and, as she suspected, most likely courters) as they made their way to their usual point of rendez-vous.

"Happy, happy," she murmured as she resumed her filing of medical forms.

The procedure was well rehearsed and had become natural after a few weeks when the pair had found they had much to talk about in place of procedural instruction.

"I did it, Miss Miranda, I finally did it!" Krory announced with elation as he removed his winter wear and seated himself on the bed while Miranda gathered her clipboard and some equipment for checking essentials. "I sold the house!"

"Today? Vunderful, Arystar!" She paused, clasping her stethoscope in delight, before letting the cold metal rest on his back. "To the sveet voman and her husband?"

Krory took two deep breaths. Miranda scribbled stats down on her records.

"Yes," he answered as she moved to the front and the process was repeated. "We worked it out, the price and all."

She swiped a thermometer with a sterilizing wipe and he opened his mouth.

"Good. Are you vorried about anything? It vas a beautiful place you know." She read the reading and recorded it, gesturing at his shoulder to indicate for him to take his shirt off of it.

"Not nearly as much as I thought I'd be. It was a nice spot though, most certainly. Only… it was a bit sizey for me…" he studied the familiar pictures on the white walls as the bandage was unwound from his shoulder.

"Viggle your arm a bit."

"I do think a cottage sized house would suit me better." He shook his limb, which hung at his wounded joint.

"And raise it a bit."

"It may take some looking, but there's bound to be somewhere." He swung his arm out slowly until it was level with both his shoulders.

"Down, please."

"Maybe even near here." He slowly let the arm fall. "I haven't found anything in town yet," he continued as she held his elbow and guided his arm in a variety of movements, "but I can't give up so soon." She scribbled busily and replied,

"There vere very many vunderful, _vunderful_ cottages in my home. Very pastoral and all." She tore the sheet with a swift tug along its perforated edges and handed it to him. "Here," a kind of good-hearted conspiratorial look passed between them as the form was passed, "your release. You're officially clear to leave our care!" She beamed somewhat shakily. "Congratulations!"

"Miss Miranda," he stared gratefully at his caretaker for the last month and, quite to her shock, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a gracious embrace. "Thank you!" Her chocolate eyes widened and almost instantly after her cheeks burst into blotches of color but she gingerly slid her arms around his neck and squeezed once, stammering,

"You-y-velcome… You're velcome." She struggled to suppress her blush and flustered manner as he released her, buying time by turning to the cabinet and daintily rearranging odds and ends. If she'd remained facing her patient, she would have noticed more than a modest splash of pink marking his high cheekbones but he was much relieved that she did not.

Krory leaned surreptitiously to the side to glance at her clipboard, in search of her schedule.

"Miranda-Miss…Miranda," he leaned to the other side, clearing his throat, "you wouldn't- would you happen to be… Miss Miranda."

She gulped, hands trembling.

"Are you free this evening?"

"N-Yes!" She whipped around, responding before his vocal chords had fully silenced, startling them both. They saw each other blushing profusely and looked away. Miranda coughed pointedly and continued in a barely stable voice, "Yes, Master Krory. I do indeed happen to be free this evening…"

"Well… err… lovely!" Krory swallowed and clapped his hands in an awkwardly delayed stress of his words. "… Would you care…" he swallowed again, fidgeting with the bed sheet, "to join me-"

"Yes. I vould."

Miranda clapped her hands to her mouth.

"Really?" Krory looked at her joyously.

"Yes," she repeated, "I vould."

"When can you-"

"You're my last patient for the day."

"Do you know where the restaurant on Main-"

"Yes."

"What time is good for-"

"Eight o'clock vould be vunderful."

"Should I pick you-"

"I'll valk there, I live very close."

Krory stared at her as though she had cured the world of influenza as she steadily reddened under his gaze.

"Wonderful," he stood and gathered his things, pausing to stare at the now thoroughly flushed Miranda before exiting in a hurry.

"Aaah…" Miranda collapsed instantly against the cabinet, sliding down to the floor and gazing up at the ceiling (plain as ever but remarkable to her presently love-blinded eyes). She re-ran the conversation, a grin slowly falling to gravity's pull. Her feet turned in and her knees fell against one another as she buried her face in her hands against her kneecaps and squealed in a schoolgirlish jubilation. "I've got to get ready," she mused out loud and looked up, alert. Suddenly, she jumped to her feet and straightened her room, dashed down the hall, punched out her work card, and bid adieu at the front desk in record time. The head nurse shook her head and muttered,

"Happy and in such a hurry…"

* * *

Dinner illuminated one thing in great and blatant relief: Frauline Miranda Lotto and Master Arystar Krory III were far and fast in love.

As they shifted into shadows in the street lights outside the full glass panes of the mood-lit eating facility in passing out of doors, they greeted the empty night time street with a silence laced with this truth they were each attempting to come to terms with. Krory drifted spacily to a snow dusted bench where he perched lightly in thought, eyes fixed on the luminescent pulse of the iron encased lamp. The heat from the quaint restaurant barely reached his tall, sloped back and the heat from his open-mouthed breaths hung briefly before him, warming his nose and cheeks in gusts.

He blinked, breaking from revelry at a stifled impact against his coat-layered back and turned his head distractedly. Miranda was standing near the windows, one mittened hand poorly concealing a surprised smile, the other hanging limply before her at the end of an arch of movement. Tiny flecks of white on her dark mittens and an uneven dip in the snow-stacked window ledge brought the projectile to Krory's attention and he discovered upon looking down at his back that the deteriorated yet distinct remains of a snowball were scattered on the bench beneath a somewhat circular, soft white stain on his back. He grinned slowly at the now giggling Miranda before bolting into action.

The snow molded with familiar ease in his well practiced gloved hands as he heard her boot heels clacking against the cobble stone sidewalks over her devilish yet genial laughter. He gave chase good-naturedly, coming in range in a matter of seconds what with his gait advantage and returned fire with great success as she stooped to gather a defense. Miranda turned back slightly as she ran, face passing in and out of the moons blossoming from the line of streetlamps lining the walk. She threw her hurriedly made snowball back, not even trying to hit anymore, her laughter was too intense to do much besides run and he stepped into her circle of light for the first time, finally catching up. As Miranda reached the lamppost, she seized it's elegant neck and swung herself around, now facing her pursuer. Krory slowed his pace to avoid collision and similarly gripped the cold metal.

Miranda swung to the other side, Krory followed.

She swung back, laughing hysterically and Krory followed this time grabbing her in a loose embrace, laughing along with her. The two slid slowly to the street, leaning helplessly against the lamppost as they shook uncontrollably with mirth, wrapped in each other's arms. Eventually, the laughter petered off to deep breaths and Miranda turned to her side, leaning against Krory, head on his shoulder with her hands tucked under her nose while Krory looked lovingly down at her, smoothing her coats and stroking her dark waves of hair. They sat in silence again, occasionally feeling the moist clumps of snowflakes perch upon their bare skin.

"Miranda…" she looked up softly, feeling her name from her spot curled against his chest. "Earlier when I was talking about a new home… I didn't tell you; I don't plan on staying here."

Another pause.

"You mean… in Romania?"

Krory looked across the dark streets into the shop windows on the other side that he could barely discern.

"No, Miranda… I'm leaving Europe all together."

Miranda's gaze joined his and she sighed a little.

"There's going to be another var… that's vhy I left, the Weimar's falling fast." She looked up again and he met her gaze. "That's vhy." He nodded slowly.

"Miranda… will you come with me? I don't know where I'll go, maybe the East, maybe America, but-"

"I vill, Arystar. I don't care vhere." Another lapse in conversation blanketed the couple.

Krory's arms enfolded her gently.

"Somevhere safe," she added quietly.

They didn't have a fortune, or a home, or a plan. They had only a modest budget, a drive, and dreams.

And, of course, each other.


	7. Musha

And, directly after the WWI fic, we have a WWII fic! This one is blissfully shorter (evidently) and features Skin as an American pilot flying over Japan and firing on, guess who, Kanda, a nameless Japanese civilian. Musha means warrior in Japanese which will make sense after the fic. Enjoy!

FYI: I use the word Jap and that is purely for period reasons, I have no personal racist feelings towards the Japanese and doubt I ever will. Gomen! Skin said it, not me!

* * *

Musha

If you looked at me, you never would suppose that I could fly.

I look like my job, hauling loads around on the docks of joli Nouveau Orléons, but I've got a different sort of lot now, I can fly.

And I can kill.

Living near the water, Pearl Harbor was pretty real to me, I had some friends down there too and I'm gonna kill every damn Axis moron who gives me the chance.

Unforgivable, unforgivable.

"Go to hell" (I talk to the dots in my crosshairs sometimes). I take her down cause I can see land in the ocean coming up fast. We haven't heard from the Kamikaze for a while, good thing too for them and us, they're tricky bastards. I level off and close in, I'm after a rural part of the island, no big cities today, no atomics.

Christ, those things drive me mad, the only way they'd get me to tote a sucker that dangerous would be to pay me. I don't mind someone using them so long as I have nothing to do with it. I'd rather do things my way, with a gun, no fancy, chemical crap.

I'm breaking land now, I pull around and follow the coast, looking for my target, listening to the engine droning on.

Static on the radio.

I see the city a little ways off and bring her in lower still. I've done this a dozen times, the firing procedure's like breathing now. I see a little group of civilians in green quads, probably rice patties or some other farm plot, and a few on the strips of dust that are roads and I open fire. I start peppering the turf, watching my bullets tear into the ground and the people begin to run and scream. I'm so close to the ground I can hear their shouts even over the hum of the motor and the click of mechanisms in the gun.

Unforgivable.

Unforgivable.

The fields are nearly vacant now but as I begin second fire, I notice something I've never seen or heard of.

This one Jap isn't even moving, she's just standing there, even looking up at my plane coming towards her, like a challenge or something. My fingers hesitate and I come up on her and look down to see her face. She spreads her arms out, long hair twisting and loose work clothes whipping in the draft. I actually see her eyes and she sees mine and my hand doesn't move for the trigger because she's gorgeous and terrible at once, glaring at me with a look I'm surprised didn't turn me into stone.

And then I'm over her and I turn around to see her do the same. I realize I'd never really flown before as she turns fully around and picks up a rock or something and hurls it at the plane. She shouts foreign words, harsh and loud with the same power as her violent stare,

"YURUSA!"

And then I'm off the land into the coast, my hand drops from the unused firing panel.

The voice was a guy's.

I guess that's why I can fly, a big guy like me.

Cause a little guy like him can save his village from something five times his size.

Yurusa…

* * *

Yurusa means unforgivable (according to various translation services of questionable reliability)


	8. Missionário

The first of doubtless many inspirations from AP American history! Portugal is, as many of you probably know, THE navigation country and lo and behold, the wondrous first chapter revealed that Portuguese missionaries had landed in Japan! Ergo, Tyki Kanda! Tyki is a Portuguese missionary in Japan where Kanda entertains him as a religion-infatuated Japanese lord. The pronouns are slightly confusing, but I think you can determine the Tyki he's from the Kanda he's with context... Takes place circa 15th century I do beleive, mid Portuguese exploration age. Enjoy! The title, by the way, means missionary in Portuguese... the accent refused to cooperate...

* * *

Missionario

His skin is dark.

His skin is white.

His the crust of baked bread drizzled with olive oil.

His the flawless pale grains of rice.

Their lungs breathe sea air.

His voice is smooth.

His voice is fast.

His the rolling of the Atlantic's embrace.

His the flash of fish scales above the Pacific's slaps.

Their knees grow stiff from prayer.

His body is strong.

His body is thin.

His the blare against white stone gates.

His the trickles through paper walls.

Their hair is blacker than the ocean's yawn.

He came to the place where the sun found the world with a book and a song and silk words to trade for pepper words. Deus came in his wake.

His brothers had come before him. His brothers would come after.

They found them to be something nice to listen to on days they'd rather be inside. But he, he could feel the silk around his limbs, and it was more beautiful than that which he wore, he took them to his paper walls and poured their tea and gave his food and sat with them at low tables. But dark men were too heavy for the white world and his tables would be empty again with the tea still warm in the cups. His heart would cry but his lips were too perfect to tremble, his eyes too brilliant to water, his cheeks the unmarred lunar glow, the moon where liquid has never been.

Brothers had come before. Brothers would come after.

The kettle was not yet broken.

But when he came, stepped onto the land where the sun found the world, there were no more brothers.

None with skin so dark.

None with a voice so smooth.

None with a body so strong.

None who knew Deus so well.

And so, there were no more brothers.

Now his rolling words fill the paper walls and he smiles from his lips in the light and from his eyes behind the convenient dip of the warm, round tea kettle. He is a master of delicacy and the infinitely fine movements of a slight frame disguised by vast hills of robes entrance the bright eyes in the dark skin though the words never betray distraction. He is a master of grace and even when he's sitting absolutely still it seems presumptuous to believe he is wholly human and not partially of the immortal realm.

But of course, Deus is the only one who lives there.

He pours forth theology and he pours more drink, not understanding a single word but knowing if he stops listening that the mats will be rumpled and empty again and not wanting that more than anything.

He, on the other hand, wants more than anything to take away the words for listening and speak in a language they both could understand, but he's seen in the wild ponds that lotus fold so easily.

So they sit and play the scene where everything they want could be and isn't.

They are masters of control.

"Deus," the one word he knows in the smooth words from across the waves, "Deus pediu me para o visitar," the greeting he always gives because formality is essential to keeping control.

"Deus," the one word he knows, "Deus ha koko ni iru."

…

God asked me to visit you…

God is here.


End file.
